


Can't Help It

by loveallthepoison



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Angst, Artists, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Penises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveallthepoison/pseuds/loveallthepoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank just wants to not be lied to. But sometimes, Gerard can't help it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Help It

“I cherish you,” Gerard whispers. The whisper seems far away to me at the moment, as I am bent forward over the dressing room counter, my clothes stripped from my body and everything on display.

“Don’t lie to me,” I grunt as I feel his always-warm, always-large cock pressing at my entrance, begging to be let in. I can feel Gerard’s breath, hot against my neck and the length of his torso is pressed against my back. When Gerard’s this near to me, I can feel buzzing in my veins and everything’s right again. In a world when nothing is ever right, Gerard is.

I close my eyes, waiting for the moment that always comes. And, as if to fulfill a promise, it does. He pushes all the way into me, his cock pushing my insides around in order to make way for the Way, as I jokingly call it. I feel the breath hiss in through my teeth and Gerard hears it.

“Are you okay?” He whispers, not moving. I can feel his balls on my butt, his breath on my neck, his skin sticky and hot against my own.

“No,” I say in an agonize groan. It feels good—it always does. There’s no thrill like Gerard being inside of me, when we’re as intimate as two people can ever possibly be. 

The air in the room stands still. Nobody moves. The only presence is naked flesh upon naked flesh and neither of us says a word. Then, in one swift motion, Gerard pulls out and turns around, pulling up his pants—which have been pooled around his ankles. “Get out,” he whispers.

“G,” I can’t say his whole name. I can feel my anus, aching from the absence of Gerard to fill it up. I don’t want to say anything; I just want him to hold me close. But he never holds me close. With Gerard, everything is a kiss or a fuck or a hug. Nothing lingers. “I love you,” I say lamely.

“Please leave,” he’s still not looking at me. A rush of shame fills my bones and I stand there, naked, staring at him.

“Love me,” I beg. He says nothing. I have my answer.

Ray is in my dressing room when I get there, ready to go over chords and practice and do all of those things that Ray is the most passionate about. He has his guitar in his lap and his feet up on the coffee table, practicing a solo for one song or the other. I should know what song he’s playing, but I don’t know anything. I can feel Gerard’s breath on my neck and him saying that he cherishes me: an empty promise. He spouts out lies and expects every single one to hit home. None of them do anymore.

“Are you okay?” Ray asks. Of everyone in the band, he’s the only one who really gets me: maybe it’s the shared instrument, but you can never really be sure. I stand in the doorway, shaking and swaying and feeling tears that want to come but just refuse. And I shake my head.

The next few minutes—or maybe it’s more than a few. I’m not sure—consist of me, like the baby that I am, lying on the couch with my head in Ray’s lap. I can feel my tears on his pant leg and I know that he can feel it too, but this happens a lot. He strokes my hair and tells me that things are alright and behaves like a brother that I always wished that I’d had when I was growing up.

I know that the opening act has to be almost done. I don’t want to go out on stage tonight. I don’t want to jump around and be okay and watch Gerard lick and suck and kiss the microphone that he sings into with the knowledge that less than two hours later, he’ll be doing the same thing to my cock. I just don’t want to. 

Gerard’s been getting harder to deal with recently. He gives nothing. He takes me backstage after the show, fucks me to euphoria, then either cries or tells me that it meant nothing or kisses me on the forehead and leaves. And I’m alone with my thoughts and my agony and my undying love and the useless hopes that one day he’ll love me back.

Despite the pain, though, the door opens and it’s Mikey and we need to go onstage and Are you Okay, Frank? And Yeah, I’m fine Mikey and Ray helps me up and tunes my guitar and puts the strap around my shoulder and ushers me into the backstage area.

I can feel Gerard in the corner of my vision, as I always do. He’s talking to Bob about something and I desperately want to be a part of that conversation. I always want to be involved in what Gerard’s saying. I want him to say everything to me. I want his eyes to stare into his soul and his talent to be a special gift, given from him to me so that I can hold it in my soul and feel it wherever I go.

He doesn’t look at me, though. And I’m stuck standing with Ray, harmonizing our pitch for while my eyes never leave Gerard’s profile. His hair is dark and so is his makeup. He looks like the Gerard of the stage: the one that the fans love. But no matter the makeup or the stature, I always love Gerard. I love him in the makeup and I love him in sweatpants and a tee shirt. 

The stagehand signals to us and it’s time to go onstage. People are screaming and the amps are blasting and lights are flashing, and everything is suddenly too much. Bob counts us off and starts playing and I can’t feel my fingers or my heart and the breaths that are stuck in my throat have no outlet anymore. I can hear Gerard singing all around me, and I can hear Ray’s guitar, which is indubitably better than mine, despite the fact that we’re playing the exact same thing.

I stare at the strings. My fingers form the patterns that they need to and I play the chords the way I did at the last venue and the way that I did in the studio when we recorded the album and the way that I did when we first created the song. But nothing sounds right. I grimace and keep playing, keep looking down, don’t look at Gerard. He’s probably singing at me, probably putting the microphone in his mouth and thinking about what we both know will happen after the show. 

I can’t think of it, though. I just play until I can feel someone in my ear. It’s usually Gerard who tells me what to play next. He usually puts his face right close to mine and his breath kisses my earlobe as he gives me an instruction—one that I will always obey. But today, it’s Mikey. I look up and Gerard is talking to Bob. Jealousy curls in the pit of my stomach and I can’t look down anymore as we begin the next track. I stare at an exit sign as the band plays I Don’t Love You. For a moment, I glance at Gerard and our eyes connect. I regret it almost immediately, but I can’t look away. He doesn’t love me.

Anger curls inside of me as I think of everything that we’ve done together: everything that he’s done to me. And he still doesn’t love me. I strike a chord too hard and wince. From across the stage, Ray bangs his head in my direction, his eyes meeting mine as he lifts his mane. He wants me to calm down.

I feel tense all over, though. Finishing the set is like walking on hot coals. Every time I look up, there’s the bright exit sign, blaring through my vision, or Gerard’s eyes that look straight into my soul and remind me of how unloved I am. There’s nothing that I can do, but play chord after chord and keep my head down, so by the end of the set I’m covered in sweat and my hair sticks to my cheeks not from the sweat, but from the tears.

I don’t want to meet up with Gerard after the show and I don’t want to go back to his room and fuck until I see stars. I want to call my grandfather, put on my sweatpants, listen to The Stooges in my own little compartment on the bus, while we ride to whatever our next venue is: I forget the shows, they come one after the other.

I can feel my nose running and my eyes are raw as we exit the stage. Mikey, Bob, and Ray don’t bother me. They know what it looks like when I have a bad day. They also generally know who’s to blame. I don’t blame Gerard, though. He doesn’t know what he’s doing when he does it. He’s just being.

“Frank,” he whispers behind me, “a word?”

I say nothing, but allow him to usher me into the small, dark room. Almost instantaneously, I’m pushed up against the wall. Gerard’s taller than me, his hands are big, and his eyes are bright. His lips are soft and they taste like magic. I feel myself, enveloped by him, his tongue roughly pushing past my teeth, rubbing the roof of my mouth in a way that I usually love. I don’t love it today, though.

“Gerard,” I try to say, but it sounds like nothing because my mouth is so full of his. He pulls away and looks at me, his eyes soft.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, one of his hands ghosting the curve of my waist. I feel myself melting—I always melt. I don’t want to melt. But when Gerard’s hand runs down my thigh, I know that I’m helpless. I have to give in.

On my knees now, I stare up at him. I never give the first blowjob, but today I want to. I know that I’m not very good at it, and that his skills put me to shame, but I still want to. I can feel his cock through his jeans, hard and ready for me. Gerard’s eyes still look wild from the show as he stares down and I kiss him through the pants. 

“Get on with it, Iero” he groans, grinding against my face. He always calls me by my last name when he’s horny. I bite at where I know his member is lightly and he just groans harder, pushing his groin against me so hard that my head lands on the wall. After teasing for a few more minutes, I unbuckle his pants, pull them down (he doesn’t wear underwear during shows) and there’s his prick, staring me straight in the eye. It’s fairly large, but I wouldn’t say that it’s outside of the boundaries of what’s considered normal. The head is pale and beautiful and a vein throbs along the bottom of the shaft. For a second, I just stare at it.

Before I know what’s happening, Gerard grabs the back of my head and thrusts as deep as he can go. I can barely suck, let alone think. There’s a cock in my mouth and I’m pressed against a dark wall backstage at a concert venue where I was crying less than ten minutes ago. I reach around and grab Gerard’s ass, trying to take control of the situation. To a certain extent it works. He pumps in and out of my mouth and as he does so, his balls hit my chin rhythmically. He lets me pull back and begin to lick just at the head. I knead his ass with my palms, kissing all along his cock as I go. Finally, as I feel that he’s about to blow in my face, I pull back and look up at him expectantly. He lifts me up, roughly, and throws me down on the couch that we we’re poised directly beside.

“You’re a fucking slut, Iero,” he tells me, taking his pants and shoes all the way off and leaning over me. I groan too loudly as his shaft brushes against mine and he bites my neck, simultaneously. I can’t feel anything but the sensations that Gerard evokes within me. He kisses my lips closed-mouthed and gives me a look: a look that means that I’m about to have my dick sucked.

He starts out slowly, as always. One of the ways that Gerard has always liked to torture me is that he makes me cum. And then, he fucks me until I cum again. That process is often arduous and somewhat painful in my cock—and it will be especially today because he blew me before our freak-out before the show.

I’m thinking about earlier, so I almost miss the beginning. His tongue is on the base of my cock, on the underside. He licks up slowly, never breaking eye contact with me until he gets to the frenulum and takes the head into his mouth, sucking lightly. I groan not so lightly and he takes that as license to pull my entire member into his mouth. I sit there, my cock enveloped in the warm, moist cavern of Gerard’s skilled mouth. His tongue swirls around the head and I buck my hips like crazy, trying to find some release. Trying to fuck his face.

He doesn’t stand for that, though. He pushes me down with one hand, holding me to the couch like a trapped animal as he sucks vigorously, taking time to pull his head back and push it forward. Sometimes his teeth graze the sides of my shaft lightly; sometimes his tongue does its dance. His eyes never leave mine, and all I can think about is how much I love him. Those thoughts are interrupted, though, by the huge orgasm that takes my body, making me shiver and buzzing through my toes and fingertips. 

Gerard doesn’t falter, still moving his head as he milks my cock. Once he’s done, he continues to look at me while he swallows the entire load. I feel done—and I want to feel done. Gerard has done everything that he possibly can—except that he hasn’t.

“Hands and knees,” he demands, and I have no choice to obey, on that couch. He’s taken his shirt off and he pulls off mine as well, placing his hands upon my hips. His cock is slightly slippery against my entrance—I’m not sure if it’s from my saliva or his own precum. Either way, he pushes in without hesitating, the whole motion happening with an uncanny sense of fluidity. I see stars, the back of my head forgetting why it was ever even upset. All I can feel is Gerard’s thighs against my thighs, slapping as he moves in and out. Usually, I try to participate, but today I’m already too spent—from crying and stressing earlier, and from shooting my load straight into Gerard’s mouth a few moments earlier.

Despite the odds, though, I feel my cock starting to stir again, brought back to action by the sheer force of Gerard’s will. At that moment, he hits my prostate and everything goes dark—the good kind of dark, like the night of the new moon, when it’s too cloudy to see the stars. My mind is dark like a sheet of pure black, covering up not just the good but also the bad, and leaving me as a tabula rosa, the blank canvas that Gerard can paint as he pleases—the perfect stage for my artist to perform.

I’m back from heaven as Gerard pulls out—I realize that I must be moaning very loudly, because his hand is gripping my waist. He only grips my waist when he wants me to shut up. But then, he thrusts and hits it again and I can’t help the moan, I arch my back and lift myself out of the position that I was ordered into. Gerard, who always seems to be in charge, shoves me back down and keeps going. From there on out, every thrust is magical, until it becomes the painful kind of magic that you can’t even really appreciate anymore because it’s always there.

I feel like I’ve hit the ceiling, my eyes have rolled back into my head one time too many, Gerard is made of steel. Then, in a moment of pure bliss, he buries himself in me and begins to cum. I can feel his cock pulsating, his semen filling me up and leaving me with remnants of the man that I love. That thought is enough to push me over the edge one final time. This load that I shoot on the couch isn’t as large as the one that I blew in Gerard’s mouth earlier, but it’s still substantial.

Gerard pulls out and I know that he’s going to walk away, make an excuse, avoid eye contact, remind me of how gullible and useless I am—how I always succumb to him, never stand up for myself. Instead, though, he sits down and pulls me into his lap. I can’t move, I’m too spent. My breaths come out ragged and I can feel his seed spilling out of me and onto his thigh, which is somewhat embarrassing but I’m too tired to care.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers to me, but I still don’t believe him. I stare up with all of the distrust in the world aching in my blood. “I mean it,” he says, touching my face with his hand. I can’t swat it away. His eyes are so hazel, so clear, so tortured.

“Why?” I ask, not expecting the crack in my voice. He closes his eyes, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not enough, G.”

“I know.”

He opens his eyes again and continues stroking my face with his one hand. I can feel his calloused fingers as they come to rest on my pulse point. He can feel my heartbeat, uneven and full of quickly fading adrenaline. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers and for perhaps the first time in my life, I see a tear gathering on Gerard’s lower lash.

“You’ll never lose me.”

He shakes his head, wipes his eyes with the hand that isn’t on me, and looks down. “Yes, I will,” the silence that ensues seems endless. I want to argue with him, but I can’t be sure that he’ll never lose me. The passion is fading slowly, and I feel the pain again. He’s beautiful and he’s an artist. Everything about him makes me love him more, except for when he treats me like I’m nothing. “Because I don’t love you,” he reminds me.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say. I always believed him when he said that he didn’t love me, but right now it feels like a lie. Right now, I feel loved.

“I can’t help it,” is his simple response. He stands up, gently placing me on the couch and walking towards the bathroom, to clean up before we get on the tour bus to head to the next nameless destination: the next faceless gig in the next empty room.

He can’t help it.


End file.
